


Home

by tco



Series: The coffee-verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8x23, Coda, Fallen Castiel, M/M, Post Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2013-05-18
Packaged: 2017-12-12 06:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/808165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>your home is what you miss the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

On the first night Castiel tries to make his way out of the woods. He seeks the north and marches somewhat blindly as his eyes unsurprisingly are still burning with the sight of his brothers and sisters rushing into mortality in a burst of grace-consuming flame. It is a matter of concern for him, but somehow, it is not the most urgent one. His steps and his fears are guided by the voice which called his original name for the second time, its desperation still echoing in his mind despite the ability to hear the one who was calling being long gone. Last thing he heard before everything got shut down. The source, Castiel’s thoughts ache, has to be the first thing he needs to find.

Perhaps only to tell Dean he’s never going to be a worthy companion anymore, that he is of no use. But he has to let Dean know, he can’t leave him hanging for he doesn’t even know which time already, so Castiel won’t. After that he may die a miserable death. But not before he reaches them.

He finds the outskirts of a bigger city when it is still before dawn. On the silent streets not a soul can be found other than occasional cars that do not stop no matter how hard he tries. He feels heavy and exhausted, it is something really horrible to feel. He sits down on a lonely bench, very soon he falls asleep. For a second he almost feel like he’s dying.

*

On the second day, many people quickly turn away or pretend not to hear, terrified with his dirty coat and troubled, tired eyes. After a dozen of displeased glances and hardly witty remarks, he receives the answer for the question he has been repeatedly trying to ask. He’s in Winchester, Illinois. He’s too tired to be surprised. Somehow he always finds himself in Illinois. And as for the town alone, he just takes it as a part of Metatron being an asshole.

There is still some curled-up money left lingering in his pockets. He keeps on asking for directions. A middle aged woman driving an old yellow escort is kind enough to take him to Jacksonville. She seems both curious and concerned. Castiel can easily smell cigarettes from her mouth as she asks him where exactly is he going. He only answers with ‘Home’ and offers her a hurt smile. She doesn’t push anymore. Before he leaves the car and thanks her, she grabs him by his wrist and forces a ten dollar bill into his palm. Her dark skin is nice and warm, for a moment Castiel nearly feels not alone.

"At least get yourself a coffee and a breakfast, boy. You look like a dead man walking."

"Bless you," he replies as he gets out. He really wishes there was anyone left in this world to give out blessings anymore. But the world is hollow. And he feels hollow, too. "I wish I could help you as well," he decides to add after a thought.

"You can start by getting your ass fed," she laughs, nods at him and drives off.

He gets himself with the cheapest, strongest coffee he can find, saves the rest of whatever he has for the transport. He doesn’t find a bus until the late afternoon. He spends the time watching the humans get in and get out of the station. He’s not tired of it after all this time. He’s just certainly not sure what it means to be one of them yet. He regrets that he is no longer able to help them. Tiredness returns and he gets another coffee. He finds himself strongly not fond of sleeping. Around ten in the evening he reaches Kansas City. He waits another hour for another bus and when he finally takes a seat in it, he deliberately doesn’t allow himself to fall asleep even though his body demands it fiercely.

Castiel does not like sleeping at all. Putting the general lack of control aside, the last time he fell asleep, on that bench, his aching brain kept serving him unbearable portions of distorted imagery of wounded Dean, crying out his name while cradling his dead brother in his trembling arms, his woeful voice piercing the sky along with the heavy rain of his celestial family falling violently on the ground, filling the air with dust that was left over their wings burning away. He woke up crying and he could have sworn he could smell blood and burnt flesh. In an attempt to avoid any of it happening again, he spends the entire ride staring at the window. He’s getting strangely used to buses already, he thinks.

*

On the third morning, he finally places his feet in Lebanon. It takes all of his memory and all of his remaining will and strength to find the bunker, but after wandering around for a while, he finally does. He smashes his fists at the heavy door, but everything remains silent. He shouts at the door several times but all to no avail. He slides down the concrete wall, sits down and awaits a miracle or his death. At this point, anything will do, he sighs.

*

Dean has gotten used to the sight on a curled-up trench coat on his path he is not even surprised anymore. It’s been three days and his throat is far too sore from crying and there he is, his prodigal Cas, miraculously reappearing precisely when everything has been already done or whenever the bastard finds it convenient. The heap of clothing gets up upon hearing the Impala’s engine’s roar and stands in front of the door unmoving, waiting.

Dean parks the car and every single step he makes towards Cas is desperate, angry, heavy. He doesn’t say a word as he approaches him and slams him into the door, planning to punch him first, greet later. But right away Dean notices something is very off. Cas should be tough, he should be made of iron, he should be not giving a fuck, but certainly he shouldn’t be this light to push, he shouldn’t make a pained noise as his back meets the metal door.

"Cas!" Dean barks and he has no idea whether he’s scolding him or asking him a question, or demanding an explanation or whatever there could be else.

"Sam. How is Sam?" Cas asks weakly, for the time being obviously not addressing whatever that was that Dean had thrown at him.

"Still like crap, but he’s strong. He’s getting better."

Cas nods and exhales heavily as if a burden fell off his chest. He shouldn’t be looking this shit, this tired.

"Cas," Dean insists. Or warns. Or offers. He’s not sure.

"Metatron. I couldn’t stop him, Dean. No one could."

"What happened, man? I saw the sky shitstorming with angels. How the hell did he do that?"

Castiel swallows heavily. Dean knows this because he’s already been staring at his mouth and his throat. He’s got an idea for an explanation but he needs to hear it nonetheless.

"It was a spell, all of it. He had to take my grace to complete it," Cas nearly whispers, the word grace coming out bitter and painful out of his lips.

"So you’re saying the little shit went all little mermaid on yo," Dean tries to make sure.

"I don’t know what are you trying to imply with thi," Cas begins tiredly, "but yes, I am human," he finishes with a sigh.

They share a moment of swollen silence. Dean does not know what to say, this is probably the last thing Cas wanted to end up as. Damn, he knows it is the last damn thing, he’s already had a chance to see it. And it was the most painful thing to watch.

Castiel on the other side does not say anything because he doesn’t know if there’s anything left to say anymore. He just admitted that from now he is useless, he is a burden, a problem. Not any help, not a solution, but an issue. It feels dreadful and shameful. It’s wrong.

"I’m sorry," they both say at the same time.

Something inside of Dean’s mind clicks into place. A recent scene from that goddamn bar re-emerges victoriously from the back of his heart like Cthulhu from the ocean. Dean lets out all of the air out of his lungs and chuckles, even to his own surprise.

Castiel subconsciously tilts his head in confusion and stares back at Dean, too curious to feel offended. Dean doesn’t sound like despair. Whatever this is, if it means that Castiel is allowed to stay and at least think things through – it is fine. More than fine. It’s perfect.

Dean finally meets his eyes. For a mysterious reason they glow with lightness, youth and hope. Green is the color of hope, human legends say, after all.

"You been drinking anything on the way, Cas?" Dean asks with a smile.

"Just coffee," Castiel replies, still somewhat confused by the change of air.

Dean places his arm over his shoulders and in an inexplicable way, it makes Castiel feel steady again.

"Next one’s on me," Dean grins and opens the lock of the bunker.

His hands are shaking, Castiel notices, but the smug smile doesn’t wear off.

Castiel can’t take his eyes off this smile and looking at it mesmerized to no end he feels he made it home.


End file.
